


Test

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 16:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Newbie!Arthur and annoying!newbie!knights.





	Test

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2008 for the prompt: _"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." -Corinthians 13:7_.

 

  
“You’ve got to stop being such a pushover, captain.”

Arthur stared at the legate blankly; cocking his head, he raised a hand and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. What was the man talking about? He shuffled his feet, and shifted uncomfortably – only slightly, he was at parade rest, after all – as the other man stared him down.

“You care too much for these conscripts. No one, including mother Rome, gives a piss whether or not they live or die. You can use them however you choose…and by the way, is it true you’ve been _praying_ for them?”

Arthur’s spine snapped into place, and despite the fact his senior officer had told him to relax, his body would not allow it. His head was still; he stared into the legate’s eyes and refused to back down. Was the other man joking? Rome would _not_ accept any man used for less than his worth. Arthur believed that with every fiber of his being, and opened his mouth to say so.

“Dismissed, Castus. I don’t want to hear of you wasting your time and your breath on those…men. You certainly may practice whatever faith you choose, but listen to me – neither God nor the Army cares what you say or believe. We care about victories – and if it comes down to sacrificing one heathen for another, then so be it. Winning is all that counts. Expanding the Empire is all that counts. Good day, captain.”

With a wave of his hand, the legate turned his face to his scrolls, and summarily, Arthur was escorted from the other man’s office.

He squinted up at the sky, and then down at his spit-shined boots. His new red cloak swirled around his legs, and his armor was dress perfect and sparkling.

And his face was tight and drawn with disheartenment and not a bit of anger.

That man had to be wrong. Rome and God _especially_ cared for all men, most assuredly the conquered knights that had been forced to fight battles not their own.

He shook his head. He could ask God for anything he wanted. That was between himself and the Savior. How dare that legate – he sighed.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur moved across the raucous courtyard, evening having come upon them as he’d spent time in the legate’s office going over the latest battle reports. Men were already in their cups; plenty of tavern women and local children and off duty soldiers and … _was that Bors?_ were frolicking and enjoying their dinner with aplomb.

Arthur grumped his way through the crowd, only stopping as a few words from a table he passed caught his ear.

“…that perfect uniform and by Hadrian’s balls, did you see his boots? I half wonder if he had one of those Sarmatian dogs spit-clean them for him.”

Laughter. Arthur’s face flamed, but he stayed where he was, unable or perhaps unwilling to move.

“He could be using them for other things,” one man suggested. More catcalls and laughter burned Arthur’s ears, but before he could turn and say anything, a fight broke out at the table behind him, and he was shoved forward as the soldiers he’d been listening to jumped up to join in.

He jerked at his new cloak; the fabric was now nicely stomped and damp from his short travels. He marked the men who’d been speaking, and made a mental note to speak to their commanding officer in the morning.

He tromped along, and tried his best to keep his spirits high. God did not suffer a fool gladly, and Arthur Castus was no fool. At least, he thought not. Else why would he have been trusted with his own command at such a young age? He contemplated that – the Sarmatians were some of the finest soldiers and the best cavalry he’d seen since his own training. He couldn’t imagine anyone not being proud of them – and not being horrified at the way they were acquired for Rome.

Before he realized it, he was at the stables, and as he passed, he took note of a small amount of light that shone from within. Hesitating, he heard the voices of some of his knights, and smiling, moved forward to see what they were doing.

Gawain, Galahad – the youngest, and so green it made Arthur cringe – Lavaine, Tor, Tristan, surprisingly, and the dark haired Lancelot sat around a lamp. The sound of horses and the smells of the stable at night had Arthur entranced, as well as the low and musical cadence of the men’s voices. He slid quietly to the half-door of the stall the knights were seated in, although he did nothing to give away his presence.

The men were speaking in their own tongue; Arthur, new to this garrison and the ways of the conscripts, had not had a chance to learn enough of the language to understand what they were saying. He rested his chin in his hand, and watched them through amused eyes as he attempted to gather their subject matter from their expressions and gestures.

Time and again, as the knights talked and laughed – a few of them getting up to gesticulate wildly or imitate something they’d been discussing – Arthur found his gaze shifting to the black clad Lancelot. The knight was quiet, but his smirk would pop up every once in a while when one of the others said something that amused him. His knees were bent and his long and deceptively slender arms wrapped about them, his pointed chin resting upon the meat of his bicep.

Gawain said something, and turned his sharp gaze to Lancelot, who rolled his eyes. Gawain repeated his sentence, and Lancelot flapped a hand at him. The other knights added their voices to Gawain’s, and finally, Lancelot, groaning melodramatically, rose and affected a stiff and strange gait.

And then he spoke. In Latin.

“Knights. We are the ones who possess valor and courage. We can show our enemies that Rome does not kowtow to anyone. Long live the Empire, and may God go with us!”

Arthur’s mouth flapped as the Sarmatians howled with laughter. Lancelot strutted about the little circle, and Arthur noticed he was holding his hands at his sides, as if to keep a cloak off the ground.

He turned rapidly from the now hideous scene, not sticking around to see how the men would react. He heard a tight laugh from Lancelot as he exited the stables, his face heated and his eyes burning.

That had been, word for word, the speech he’d given this morning before their small skirmish. He’d thought it rather inspiring, having reworded it a few – well, more like a dozen – times the night before as he’d had no sleep in his quarters.

Only a few more moments, and he’d be in blessed silence.

His head began to pound, and Arthur found his thoughts going back to Lancelot’s face as the knight had spoken perfectly clear Latin, his tone almost an exact copy of Arthur’s own words. God. Is that what the men thought of him? Saw him as some pompous Roman ass that gave empty speeches and pranced about, worried about keeping his clothing safe?

He stepped up to the chapel, the smell of incense welcoming and familiar.

He turned the handle, and stopped.

Locked.

He tried the door again, and yes, the thing was locked. All patience just about gone now, Arthur banged on the door with his gloved fist, his mouth a thin line, ready to berate the unfortunate person who happened to be on the other side of the door.

Nothing.

“Shit,” he gritted out, and waited a few more minutes until he was certain there was no one there. Since when did the chapel close?

Since Arthur needed God’s presence, apparently.

Spitting to the side, something he _never_ did, Arthur stomped around the backside of the building, and into the small garden the two monks who had permanent residence there had put in. He breathed hard as he walked, the ground muddy and his new cloak soaking in the water that still wet the soil.

He found the tiny bench by accident; the stones that the monks hadn’t used yet tripped his booted feet as he trudged through the foliage. He cursed as he slumped to the seat, and then again when he noticed the state of his cloak and footwear. He raised his eyes to the sky, and, shaking his head, tried to remember he’d have to take his clothing in for cleaning in the morning.

How had his father done this for so many years? How had Uther gotten his conscripts to trust him, to like him? How had he become the one Roman the Sarmatians had managed to look up to?

He sucked in air, a small sound echoing from his armor-heavy chest that was more a sob than a breath. He shut his eyes, and shoved away the anger and exhaustion and petty hurt that came each time he remembered the soldiers in the tavern, the nasty legate, even his own, inane knights. Lancelot’s dark, laughing eyes haunted Arthur’s memory, his stiff and childish voice repeating in Arthur’s head over and over.

And yet…perhaps this was a test of his faith. A test of his strength, and fortitude, and his willingness to persevere. Yes. God must definitely be testing him. Arthur was a good, obedient servant, and he would do whatever was right and _true_ for himself, and for his men, and for Rome.

The Sarmatians just didn’t know yet, that was all. Arthur nodded to himself, and swatted absently at his face as he tried to clear off an insect as he stood. He allowed his now dirty cloak to swirl around his muddy boots, and he strode from the garden, smiling, assuring himself that God did love and wish for his continued loyalty. He was just….

Lightning crackled in the sky, and a few seconds later, the thunder followed. The clouds opened, and Arthur stood still for a moment, his undertunic and leathers getting soaked even through his armor. Another bang of thunder, and he was sprinting across the courtyard, breathless and nervous, his thoughts forgotten as the rain came down to further wet the land.

He turned a corner in the quarters building, and a familiar face was suddenly inches from his own.

“Captain,” the smooth voice – in Latin – rolled out of Lancelot, his own clothing and hair dry as a bone. Arthur raised himself to his full height despite his dripping on the stone floor, and regarded the man.

“Lancelot,” was all he could think of. _Oh, intelligent, Arthur. Well done._

“Enjoying our weather?”

“Very much so. It is extremely refreshing, especially after such a hot and busy day.” Arthur attempted to keep his dignity about him, when all he could think about was the way this man had ridiculed him in front of the other knights.

A cock of the arched eyebrows. “Aye? Pity your pretty cloak is so dirty, now.” Lancelot pointed a slender finger to the bedraggled mess that was Arthur’s new garment, and the Roman tried not to look deflated.

“Yes, well, I’m sure it will be fine. Carry on, Lancelot. A good even to you.” Arthur stepped around Lancelot as quickly as he could, ignoring the smell of horses and musk that came from the knight. As he made his way to his new quarters and pushed open the door, a tiny laugh reached his ears. He turned his head, determined to say something this time, but Lancelot, like time and Arthur’s shaky pride, was gone.

“Fuck.”

Arthur slumped into a chair, but not before he removed his hated red cloak – he bundled it up and tossed it into a corner, where Jols could find it and no doubt berate him for the abuse he showed his belongings.

Arthur doggedly removed his armor, and sat, his leathers and tunic steaming in the heat from the fire. He touched the iron cross that he wore around his neck, and for a moment, his eyes stung, and he had to swallow roughly over the lump in his throat.

A test.

He looked into the flames, and vowed silently and vehemently he would let no man, no legate, no idiot legionary, nor even one of his men take his pride and loyalty from him.

Not even one so gifted with words as Lancelot.

Arthur wondered for a brief moment why he cared so much just what that one in particular thought, and jumped at the roll of thunder that shook the walls of the garrison.

He would start anew tomorrow.

Rolling into bed – he was hungry, but too tired to call for anyone or to attempt to find anything in his rooms – he shut his eyes and crossed his arms around his chest. His tunic and leathers he had laid over his chair; the sound of the brazier going soon lulled him into a light doze.

_Father, have patience with Your humble servant. I am but a soldier in the service of the Empire, and I only seek to serve Your will._

Please, help my men to victory, and …

Let them not hate me so.

Feeling guilty for his little aside, Arthur slept as the rain poured on, his dreams filled with knights smiling at him, battles won, and a shiny, clean red cloak that fit his shoulders perfectly.

~


End file.
